My soul carries the burden,
of more than a thousand unsaid words,
and on occasion, they strangle me,
grip my vocal cords and squeeze,
until mutism seems like a good thing.
When words try to find their way up my throat,
they are gagged down like a first taste of strong alcohol,
when you're sixteen, and trying to drink away the pain,
but can't stomach the bourbon or the regret,
so you pour it down the drain, and curl up,
next to the toilet, trying to heave away the poison,
you've just forced on yourself.
If I could find a speaking voice,
I'd scream at the top of my lungs,
begging you to see what your foul thoughts do to me.
Waking up to screaming, set like an alarm clock,
must not be too good for the  psyche,
for I am falling apart like the seams of,
a sweater worn with age.
But you can't be wrong.
God have mercy, never tell her she is wrong.
She justifies her mistakes,
with the pain she bottles up,
like an over-filled balloon,
ready to pop,
and knock the wind out of you,
with it's own.
This cycle will never change,
though in the midst of it all,
I don't see myself as misfortunate,
for whether or not I set an alarm,

I will always wake up.